Every day is Australia day, mate ...

If you were born here, or came to live here, it's not a huge stretch to say you live in one of the best places to live on this planet of ours. Unless you were born here in the group of people who have lived here for 35,000 years or so. Give or take. What is wrong with us that we need to celebrate the wrong day. Come on, every bloody day is Australia day here, change the damn date!

I wrote this 20 years ago, was a bit cross, still am.

AUSTRALIA DAY 2001

I feel a little sick in myself.

Self conscious and lacking in a sorry patriotism,

I don’t want a flag to wave.

I don’t sing with my hand on my heart.

Sometimes I wonder if I would like to try it,

But not today.

Today is a smiling, shinning day of grand intentions,

Well-meaning, back-slapping,

A nation,

Joined by ubiquitous sausage sizzles.

This is our great commonality of the spirit?

Such pedestrian desires.

So easily aspired to,

So easily achieved.

My seven-year-old comes home to tell me that Captain Cook discovered Australia.

The television assures me that our nation was made whole without a war.

The politician’s legerdemain.

Sleight of hand, it’s our land.

Now who can count to one hundred?

Teachers still have to teach discovery,

not -

invasion, annexing and death.

Australians all let us rejoice -

We are a funny mob,

And even those who tread concrete feel that pull,

That call to the bush.

Cling to the coast,

But,

Love that wide brown land.

Treasure the battler, the shearer, the drover, the farmer, the grazier,

the jackaroo, and his dog.

Good men all.

They made it what it is today.

Shall their sons and daughters be proud?

But we are a bit lost,

We sing the wrong stories for this place.

Our Anglo souls populate each child’s world with fairies, goblins,

Trains with pompous names,

And wizards.

They don’t fit.

Trouble boss,

The right stories don’t fit us.

Meanwhile we are back in the sandpit, snatching,

honouring the bully.

Introspection,

self-questioning?

Why would a bloke do that?

Leave that to the weeping politicians mate.

Too much guilt is bad for this endless beach and barbecue life.

I sorrow

I worry

I fear

I grieve

I can’t forgive the turned back,

This outrage of squatter thinking.

These can only dream of being cattle kings past,

Or those who think a suburban life equips them to judge,

And makes of us a civilised people.